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“Is this a Christian church?” I said.
“How dare you ask!”
“Don’t you think, at a moment like this,” I wondered, “that Christ himself might show mercy?”
“Mercy!?” cried the Reverend. “He broke into our service, yelling, ‘I am the true Christ! I fear for my life. Gangway!’ He ran to the stage to display his wounds. He might as well have exposed himself. Forgive? There was shock and almost a riot. Our congregation may never come back. If they tell, if the newspapers call, you see? He has made us a laughing stock. Your friend!”
“My friend—” but my voice lacked luster as I climbed up to stand by the ham Shakespearean actor.
“J. C.,” I called, as across an abyss.
J. C.’s eyes, fixed on eternity, blinked, refocused.
“Oh, hello, junior,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Going on?!” I cried. “You’ve just made yourself one helluva mess!”
“Oh, no, no!” J. C. suddenly saw where he was and held up his hands. He stared as if someone had tossed him twin tarantulas. “Did they scourge me again? Did they follow? I’m dead. Protect me! Did you bring a bottle?”
I patted my pockets as if I carried such items all the time and shook my head. I turned to glance at the Reverend, who with a burst of invective scuttled behind the throne and shoved some red wine at me.
J. C. lunged, but I grabbed and held it as lure.
“This way. Then the cork comes out.”
“You would dare talk to Christ like that!”
“You would dare to be Christ!?” cried the Reverend.
J. C. reared back. “I do not dare, sir. I am.”
He arose with a jaunty attempt at hauteur, and fell down the steps.
The Reverend groaned, as if murder moved his heart to move his fists.
I got J. C. up and, waving the bottle, led him safely up the aisle and out.
The cab was still there. Before getting in, J. C. turned to see the Reverend in the doorway, his face blazing with hatred.
J. C. held up both crimson paws.
“Sanctuary! Yes? Sanctuary?”
“Hell, sir,” shouted the Reverend, “would not have you!”
Slam!
Inside the temple I imagined a thousand angel wings, knocked free, sifting down the now unholy air.
J. C. stumbled into the cab, grabbed the wine, then leaned forward to whisper to the cab driver.
“Gethsemane!”
We drove away. The driver glanced at his map book with one eye.
“Gethsemane,” he muttered. “Is that street? avenue? or place?”
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